


7.02: Without Contraries

by idlesuperstar



Series: The Crooked Roads [2]
Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Canon levels of violence, M/M, dubcon (past/implied/ambiguous)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:52:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2072415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlesuperstar/pseuds/idlesuperstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not going to sit around on his arse all day waiting for Harry to decide whether he trusts him or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	7.02: Without Contraries

**Author's Note:**

> Series notes are [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/136827), and briefly detail the series 9 issue and also my obsession with Lucas/Oleg and also Lucas/William Blake. (In the fanboy sense, not the historical/AU/timetravel sense *files idea away for later*). 
> 
> This is a sidelong look at ep 7:02 from Lucas' brainpan. If you've not seen the ep then it won't make much sense. Go and watch that instead. 
> 
> Title from William Blake's [ _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_](http://www.bartleby.com/235/253.html) : 'Without Contraries is no progression'. Intertitles are Proverbs of Hell, from the same poem.

Lucas knows that a ground floor flat is a much higher security risk, but after lugging the tenth box of books up the stairs he’s starting to wish he’d taken his chances. He’d happily tackle a burglar right now. He’s itchy in his skin, and not just because of the clothes, or the new flat.

His thoughts of justifiable GBH are interrupted by the doorbell.

Do people really - especially in London - still bake biscuits and welcome new neighbours? It must be a ruse. Perhaps _she’s_  a burglar. 

But no, it seems like she’s a friendly - lonely? - old lady who thinks he’s just a bloke, moving house. Who doesn’t want anything from him. Except maybe a cup of tea and a nose at his decor. The thought puts him off balance, but not in a bad way. There are still normal people in the world. 

He has no idea how to talk to her, feels like an awkward teenager, tries to be polite. He’s getting the tone wrong, again. If she notices, she doesn’t show it. It’s remarkably kind. 

He takes the biscuit tin with something like warmth flooding him. Macaroons. It’s all a bit Alan Bennett. That’s no bad thing. 

Maybe he can do this, after all, he thinks. Maybe he will get his chance at normality again. 

 

* * *

_He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence._

 

He’s not going to sit around on his arse all day waiting for Harry to decide whether he trusts him or not. If he’d done that he’d still be in Russia. 

He has things he needs to do.

He wonders if it was luck or judgement that put him in a flat in Lambeth. If Harry had a hand in the decision. It’s not quite Hercules Road but it’s near. He’s always liked it south of the river. He likes walking across the Thames. When he was a teenager, on one of his visits here, he’d walked all the way down the South Bank to London Bridge, just to cross it, his head full of Eliot. 

Funny, how your tastes changed. He’d hated Wordsworth at school. The fucking _Prelude._ Endless. And yet, he’d argued with Oleg so many times over him. Had thought - _when I get home, I will stand on that fucking bridge in the cold dawn and see what he saw, two hundred years ago. That mighty heart. Because it is still there, and so will I be_.  

If - _when_ \- Harry calls for something more than the endless debriefings, he’s within walking distance of Thames House. He can cross the river every day. Being on the tube at rush hour was awful _before_. He doesn’t trust himself to face it now. 

 

~

 

Her walk is so familiar. Ears and walks, they’re the hardest thing to disguise. If you’d want to. She wouldn’t want to. She has nothing to hide. Lucas feels a desperate longing for the touch of her hand in his. Safe, warm, known. 

She has nothing to hide. 

The smile on her face for the boy is a punch in the gut.

It seems she was not trying as hard as he was to hold fast. 

 

~

 

Between Harry and Arkady, Lucas feels as if he’s the kid in a divorce. Except his dads have more respect for each other. They’re still trying to screw the other one over, and using him to do it. But there’s no yelling. They’re much more subtle.

“He wants to trust you, he longs to trust you,” Arkady says. For a clever man he’s remarkably obtuse sometimes. He doesn’t seem to realise he’s describing himself. 

 

* * *

 

_He who has suffer'd you to impose on him knows you._

 

Malcolm looks older, worn out. It’s partly the shock of Adam’s death. But it’s more to do with eight years. The subtle changes that time makes, even under ordinary circumstances. 

It’s easy to talk to him, though. It always was. He’s trustworthy. Decent. A decent man.

“It’s a shock, losing someone like that,” Lucas says, and even as he’s saying the words he fears what Malcolm will see in his face, “losing someone who shines brightly and then - winks out.” 

Malcolm is a kind man. He won’t dig further than the surface. Lucas clenches his fist and deliberately changes the subject. He can’t be thinking about - about _anything_ under Harry’s scrutiny. 

 

~

 

Lucas wonders how long it took Harry to give Ros the team. It feels like no time at all, since Adam’s death. Harry’s anger is palpable. Arkady has no idea what he did to Harry, with Adam. Has no idea how dangerous a Harry bent on vengeance can be. 

Lucas can use that. If nothing else, it makes Harry less likely to scrutinise him. He needs that right now. 

"So he’s a chess player?"

Harry would think that. He’s old school, after all. Lucas can see him calculating moves. 

"Did he play on sexual anxiety? Your ex-wife - ?" Ros asks. It’s almost funny. It makes him realise that they’re little more than strangers. Arkady knew him better than that. Read him better, almost immediately. Knew what lever to try. Harry. Loyalty. Betrayal.

Harry doesn’t even flinch. He’d have done the same, Lucas knows. 

"No other visitors?" Ros asks. "No FSB interrogators?"

"Plenty," Lucas replies, heart thumping. Ros can’t read him yet. Harry’s still calculating vengeance. He survived the last eight years. He can bluff his way through it. Because if Harry ever suspected -  

"But I wouldn’t describe any of them as _company_." 

There are lots of words he could use to describe Oleg. He’s not _actually_ lying to them. 

Harry dismisses him like he’s insignificant. Lucas is torn between gut-hollowing relief that he let nothing slip, and wanting to shout _is that it?_

Harry can barely look at him. Ros leaves like someone whose instinct is to stay and garrotte him.

Lucas is aware that he sounds like he’s begging again. Harry gives with one hand and takes with the other. Trust. It’s all there is. 

He manages not to punch anything or anybody on the way out.

 

* * *

 

Lucas has always liked Highgate, although Abney Park is his favourite. He’s fairly sure it didn’t cost four quid last time he came here. But the sense of - pride? - _satisfaction_ at remembering the way is worth it. Another tick for whoever put him in a flat in Lambeth. No tube changes. Thank Christ it’s the middle of the day. 

He’s glad of the overcoat, thinks he’ll keep it. It’s getting cold. He really needs to get some new clothes. 

There’s no disguising the sound of her walk. Lucas wishes there was. 

So she did have something to hide after all. The nausea roils in his gut. 

"All that time. Eight years. I thought of nothing but you." He grits it out, like it hurts. This is all wrong. No, no, no. Is this what he gets, for lying to himself? He does not deserve this. He deserves to come back, and to live a normal life. 

But it was obviously never a normal life. He’s not the only liar here.

He feels the ghost of her hand slipping further away. 

 

* * *

 

Lucas learned a lot of things in solitary. Too many, about himself. The frightening difference between need and want. The very short list of people that he trusted. The even shorter list of people who trusted him back. 

How trust is sometimes a terrible tie to a person. _Battle not with monsters._

He grounds himself, fingertips light on the paper. Feels the warmth of the wood of the table. He is not in his cell. He is doing this because it will help. Not to escape. This has nothing to do with Oleg, and everything to do with being - home. 

 

* * *

 

Fucking Jesus _fucking fuck_.

The chill slowly seeping into his back isn’t what makes him realise where he is. It’s the feel of his coat, chafing at his wrists. The fact that he’s got clothes on.

He stares up at the greying sky, trying to pull his body back into itself, and oh _Christ_ how it hurts. 

One day, he is going to tell Ros that tasering someone who has been tortured on a daily basis is not generally acceptable behaviour.

But then, he thinks, wincing as he stumbles to his feet and his jeans drag across his cock, neither is getting hard from it. 

 

* * *

 

"Come on Lucas, impress me with your ability to talk your way out of this." 

Christ, it’s been a long time since he’s felt the full force of Harry’s sarcasm. It’s not pleasant. 

He’s too exhausted to keep his voice steady, to keep the bitterness out. He thinks back almost fondly to the morning. He’d thought he was tired then. 

Harry doesn’t believe him. But he _wants_ to. Lucas can feel it. Arkady was right about that. Lucas drops some more of his guard, wills Harry to see that he’s telling the truth. 

"If you’re lying to us, you won’t even get a funeral."

Oh dear _god._ The relief nearly floors him.

 

* * *

 

"It’s you, Arkady. Like it or not, it’s you." Arkady looks at him like he’s joking. He’s always underestimated Lucas. Needed to. Needed to trust him.

All those times he'd told Lucas he'd been abandoned. That he was his saviour. Arkady thought he knew Lucas, down to the bone. Thought he had him in the palm of his hand. He was wrong. There’s only one person who knows him that well. Lucas blinks the thought away.

He feels a strange relaxation settle over him as he shows Arkady the photo of him and Harry. All his tiredness, his uncertainty is gone. 

Check. 

"Your whole strategy is rather dependent upon one thing," he says, and Arkady’s expression is nothing like Harry’s. How had he ever thought it? "Which one of you am I loyal to?" 

Checkmate. 

 

* * *

 

"If that’s what you want," Harry says. As if there is anything else for him. 

Lucas’ wants are very few, and getting fewer. Getting back to work is the cleanest, simplest of all.

He tries not to think about the things he doesn’t _want_ to want. 

 

* * *

 

_No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings._

 

He feels like a stranger in this kitchen. No, worse than that. Strangers don’t know which cupboard sticks, and where the mugs are. Strangers don’t feel like smashing the place up. He feels bereft. This should have been his safety. He should be getting a beer out of the fridge, or moaning because there are no clean forks.

He should not be trying to untangle the unholy mess that Arkady has made of his hope. 

She can barely bring herself to look at him. Her disgust makes him feel ashamed; he flinches, covers his arm reflexively. He doesn’t even try to explain. What would it achieve?

He can give her protection, at the very least. Even if she can’t bear to look at him. 

She is not going to reach out to him. He cannot make her. He is not going to feel the safety of her touch.

He leaves empty-handed. 

 

~

 

It’s cold outside, much colder now it’s dark. He needs some gloves, a scarf. Winter is here. 

He walks briskly, breath pluming, even though he’s exhausted. Oleg would laugh at him, tell him he’s already gone soft, in the decadent west. Tell him he has the strength to stand days more of this. And it would be true. Doesn’t mean he has to, though. He can do what he likes. The realisation is glorious.

He is not powerless. Not altogether.

He has broken Arkady. And he has proven himself to Harry. These are not small things. 

 

~

 

It’s cold in the flat. He is not going to try and understand the heating tonight. He’s not going to dismantle his security system either. It can wait. He roots around in a box for a moment until he finds the book he’s looking for.

He drags the duvet into the living room and settles down on the sofa with a mug of tea and the tupperware box of biscuits from the old lady. 

If he can stay awake for another hour or so he might actually sleep for more than a few hours tonight. Might not wake up sweating and shaking, grasping for someone who isn’t there.

He opens the tin and is momentarily confused. These are not the lumpy coconut macaroons of his childhood. These are _macarons._

What has happened to the country while he was away? Some kind of baking revolution? 

They are lovely, though. He almost groans as the sugar hits him. That’s one neighbour he needs to keep on the good side of. 

He takes a swig of tea and flicks through the book until he finds what he is looking for. _Earth has not anything to show more fair._ If he is awake early again he will walk down and cross the river at Westminster. He will hope to find what he is looking for. 

He smiles to himself, thinking again that Oleg would think him decadent, with his _macarons_ and his decent tea, and the freedom to lounge around and read poetry. 

But he would understand, thinks Lucas, more than anyone, how dearly such small things are won. 

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Hearty thanks to [playazindaback](http://playazindaback.tumblr.com) for casting her beady beta eye over this, and constantly questioning the bits that are very english and sound strange to american ears. 
> 
> It's entirely possible that Lucas' opinion of Wordsworth's _The Prelude_ is your author's autobiographical projection coming through. :D Ditto his opinion on London cemeteries. Abney Park is well worth the tube/bus ride if you like ramshackle overgrown meandering Victorian cemeteries. 
> 
> Lucas' poetical thoughts about London bridges involve T. S. Eliot's [ _The Waste Land_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/176735) and Wordsworth's [ _Composed upon Westminster Bridge_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174783). And Hercules Road in Lambeth is where William Blake lived for a while. 
> 
> While I didn't have to do any research about poetry, London transport routes or cemeteries, I now know more about tasers than I ever thought I would need to.


End file.
